


A Series of Fuckups upon One Terrible Morning

by Brorito_Dorito_Daddy



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Possession
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-09
Updated: 2019-04-09
Packaged: 2020-01-07 10:12:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18408527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brorito_Dorito_Daddy/pseuds/Brorito_Dorito_Daddy
Summary: Dave forgets his shades one morning, Cal takes advantage of this to turn the brothers against eachother.





	A Series of Fuckups upon One Terrible Morning

**Author's Note:**

> This is a really old fic I had laying around and I went and touched it up a lil. Sorry for not writin anything as of late, my ass is whooped

_ Bro warned you to always wear your shades in the house. It was only an accident that caused you to disobey. “Whatever you do, don’t look, talk, or especially touch my bro, Cal. Got that, lil’ man?” He warned you about his puppet too. The one that he carries with him just about anywhere. He supposedly grew up with it, although you would understand if his foster parents had tried to once or twice to get rid of the thing. Being in the same room with it gave you the creeps. Like you were being watched from those large glass eyes. _

 

It’s not like you to forget your shades. You suppose it was because of the chaotic happenings of last evening (A neighbor's fire alarm had gone off because burned bacon at ten at fucking night. Great sleep aid there). Abandoning the aviators in a flurry to flee the supposed fire. When you woke up the next morning with the scene apparently resolved, you had groped around the desk beside your bed. In your morning haze, you did not realize they must of fallen between the bed and wall, so you just moved on.

 

You had stumbled blindly towards the bathroom before picking up faint footfalls echoing along the hallway. It’s a bit early for Bro to be up, but you decided to check it out anyway.

 

That was your first mistake.

 

You had wandered to the kitchen. Planning to mumble good morning, bounce off a few ingenious beats that you had devised, and get Bro in a good mood so he maybe won’t kick your ass so hard in the daily strife, but the room turned out empty.

 

Save Cal.

 

Your second mistake was venturing a tentative “Sup.” to it, thinking Bro must be nearby with the way it was positioned. Sitting up straight, not sagging at all like other puppets do. Grin forever plastered on its face.

 

Deciding to make some breakfast to appease the elder Strider, you rummaged around the cupboards hoping to hit the jackpot of overlooked poptarts before an almost inaudible  _ tmp _ sounded behind you.

 

You turned around. Third mistake, and your last.

 

Before you knew it, you were caught in its piercing gaze as it pulled you into a trance from where it had fallen over sideways on the counter. Eyes swirling mesmerizingly. Everything fades away and goes dark.

 

* * *

 

Your name is Bro Strider and you think today is going to be a great day.

 

Your unusual enthusiasm strengthened when you stepped into the kitchen, fresh from your shower to find your best bro, Cal propped up on the counter. You give it a fistbump and opened the fridge, before noticing Dave sitting silently at the table.

 

“Mornin’ lil’ man.” You ruffle his hair before sitting opposite of him. Glass of milk (Miraculously, milk exists. It's a wonderful world) in hand. He doesn’t seem to acknowledge your presence. He only stares down blankly at the wood and tile.

 

“Not awake yet?” You prompt good naturedly. No reaction.

 

You sip your milk, slightly put off by his silence. When you finish and rise to deposit the cup in the sink, out of the corner of your eye your shades reflect that he has gotten up too.  A slender arm wraps around your middle from behind. Dave’s face pressed without word against your shoulder blade, and you realize just how tall he is. Almost no longer your “little man”. His breathing warm and damp along your back.

 

“Don’t know why I’m gettin’ the silent treatment, but you need to cut that out.” You turn your head to look at him. Trying to read what you can see of his face for an explanation. Physical contact between you two was minimal or accidental.  _ Does he have a fever? Or maybe he is just sleepy. _ You try to think of a reason for his unusual closeness, when something slashes into your side.

 

The pain registers a split second later, along with utter bewilderment and slight fear. Scrap that. Striders don’t know fear.

 

You manage to flashstep out of the kitchen before making a quick assessment of  _ what the hell just happened _ . One hand clutching at your side and the other clenching tightly. Blood starting to blossom around the gash in your shirt.

 

There was Dave. Holding his sword, tip dragging along the tile loosely. For a second you think you’re still dreaming because all of this made  _ absolutely no sense. _ His head still hanging down and every part of him seemed completely limp. His feet especially did not seem to be realistically poised. But there you still were. Side throbbing with pain, brother attempting to maim you, or fuck,  _ maybe he wants to kill me. What did I do? _ It is definitely no boo-boo he gave you there.

 

He makes a move again. Arm raising slowly, but wrist and sword still pointed down as if on silky string. Then he practically glides towards you. Making no sound but the whoosh of air as his body sails across the room. No expression whatsoever. You hurriedly try to ready yourself for impact, but you don’t have a weapon to parry with.  _ Why don’t I have a weapon? _

 

Another spark of pain as you grab his sword by the blade and wrench it out of his grip.

 

“What the hell is going on today!?” you shout as you shield him with your body and he is knocked to the ground with a jarring thud. You pin him to the floor, searching in his face for an answer. The emptiness in his reaction is infuriating as he neither fights you off, or anything at all. Blood now dripping on to his shirt from your wound. You assume it’s over since it looks like he has given up, but as soon as you relax your grip, he springs out of your reach and snatches up a kitchen knife.

 

“Dave-” you begin but a glint catches your eye. _ I think I get it now. _ You move slowly. Acting as if you didn’t see anything and press your shades where they have almost fallen off. This would be important if your hypothesis was correct. You stand up and back away. Watching Dave carefully,  but your eyes also focused on something else.

 

Dave orients himself in the middle of the kitchen space before charging at you again. You swoop low to the ground to pick up the discarded sword before meeting him in the middle. Aimed in perfect form. He slams into your chest and you tightly embrace him. Your free arm swinging  behind him, slicing at the air with precision.

 

The knife pierces your shoulder, but you barely feel it as you connect with what you were aiming for and it breaks. String falling slack to the floor as you shudder. Relieved, but stinging with pain. Beside you, Cal falls to the floor and you don’t think twice before running your sword through him too. You collapse to your knees. Drawing out the blade wedged in your shoulder blade with a whine of agony as your adrenaline rush tapers off. Dave slumped against you, unconscious but breathing. You cling to him finally letting out a small whimper. He stirs and looks up at you, dazed. Then the expression is replaced with confusion and horror as he notices your torn clothing.

 

For the first time in what you believe is forever, you have heard the panic in his voice.

 

“Nn..nnno? No, th- this, what happened wh-y is there blood, who- what did you do?” His voice cracks as he pats your chest. Trying to feel something solid, to differentiate dream from reality. “Bro, bro, what happened? What happened?” Echoing in decreasing volume. Voice wavering and breaking even more as he continues to fret. It’s all you can do to cup the back of his head with the hand not putting pressure on your side and shush him gently. You’re here, he is here, that’s all that matters right now. You can handle the pain for as long as you will hold him. Calm him, reassure him.

 

He stops trying to ask, at least. Just burying his face into a cleaner part of your shirt and balling the fabric in his fists. The occasional wet sniff followed by the shudder of his body is at least better than crying. He couldn’t possibly be  _ that _ worried about you. As cold as it is, you had taught Dave no not be so emotionally attached to you. In the eventuality that you would cease to look after him, you thought you had made absolutely sure that he will not mourn over any loss. Only carry on as a good brother should.

 

But even when you start to expect him to peel off and wipe his face, he doesn’t. He only keeps clinging and shivering as you become worried. Your tactics all these years might of been for naught and all the proof is he is still attached to your shirt like it’s the only thing keeping you from parting already.

 

You’re vision is starting to blur from not taking care of your open wounds yet and you can no longer put off the throbs and spikes of pain that emanate from your side and shoulder Slowly, but firmly, you prompt Dave to break the contact and try to find something to help you stand up. Dave has shuffled awkwardly off of your lap before tucking himself away immediately next to the cabinets. Curled up tight and watching your every move with the widest eyes as you wobble to your feet and steady yourself.  _ Crap. This is worse than I originally calculated _ . Feeling the blood from your waist trickling down your side has got to be one of the most odd feelings at this moment. It’s just so warm yet cold at the same time. It’s terrifying in a way you have never understood before. You’re afraid of it.

 

Dave, is afraid of it.

 

You’re going to get through this, you swear. Reflecting on the treachery of your beloved doll, you remember yourself it’s never been just a doll. Regardless, the possession of Dave and the subsequent maiming of you both has left you, barren for lack of better words. Better emotion. It’s all a bit lost on you, but that might also be the loss of blood. Speaking of.

 

“Dave, gon’ need your help,” you rumble out. Your voice is more unsteady and quiet than optimal, but he seems to respond more favorably, responding at all. Standing up on wobbly feet he immediately comes to latch onto your side. Covering your soaked hand with an arm around your middle, putting more pressure on the wound before you can protest. A burning sensation lights you up with a hiss, but he insists upon it.

 

“It’s- it’s going to help,” Dave squeaks behind you, shuffling closer to be flush against your backside, clinging to you once again. “Get to th’ bathroom. Needtowash.”

 

Walking among everything else is an awkward and persistently painful ordeal. But under Dave’s shaking yet careful hands, he takes charge of you. Patting down the slices with a warm washcloth and wrapping everything in plenty of tight gauze. You’re stiff and sore and tired, but at least you won’t bleed out and die. Not yet at least.

 

All the fretting and cleanup leads you two to the couch, apple slices and a glass of milk on the coffee table. Dave sitting on the floor between, pushing a slice to your lips, which you take reluctantly. After taking a moment to consider its sweetness, you mumble around the mouthful a soft, “Thank you”. 

 

Dave doesn’t answer, downcast and despondent.

 

“It’s not your fault, you know,” swallowing, you push again. To this his face tightens, and you know you fucked up.

 

“It was the damn shades. I didn’t- didn’t get the fucking shades and now-” he turns and looks you right in the eyes: Dazzling red boring into you. It’s unnerving, but you can’t possibly look away now. 

 

“And now I just got the strings pulled right up my ass and- fucked you up better than any strife could.” He presses closer, folding his arms on the couch and resting himself to be on level with where you lay. “Puppet or not, I’m  _ sorry _ .”

 

Weakly shaking your head, you deny him. “Not your fault,” repeating dumbly, the only retort you can think of at this point. It’s not his doing, and you’re just glad he’s by your side. 

 

You’re going to survive this. Dave stays, looking over your moment of weakness.


End file.
